


Cut Off the Wicked Things

by retroflex



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bad Ending, Blood, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Racism, Child Abuse, Depression, Drowning, Duscur Headcanons, FE3H Whump Week, Feral Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Ficlet Collection, Genocide, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Imprisonment, Medieval Pregnancy Advice, Parent/Child Incest, Pregnancy, Prison, Prisoner of War, References to Depression, Stabbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trauma, Unwanted Pregnancy, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retroflex/pseuds/retroflex
Summary: Ficlets done for FE3H Whump Week.Day 1: Byleth/Rhea - TortureDay 2: Leonie - StabbedDay 3: Dimitri/Marianne - Empty ShellDay 4: Dedue - Out of AirDay 5: Ingrid - Rage Against the ReflectionDay 6: Ashe - Lifted by NeckDay 7: Caspar - Mouth Stitched Shut
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Marianne von Edmund, Leonie Pinelli & Ignatz Victor, My Unit | Byleth & Rhea
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The tags will update with every chapter. PLEASE take note of them because this will get bad.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Public Execution/ **Torture** / **Impaled Hands**  
>  Rhea has waited years for the chance to reclaim her mother’s heart. What’s a week or two more?  
> (Crimson Flower)

The cell was all brick and mildew, dark, damp and tiny, and with a single locked entrance in or out. If Byleth was still able to walk, she would have been able to cross it in a step and a half, if not for her leg already broken, and the starvation and blood loss atop that, and the furious gaze of her captor atop _that_.

Rhea had personally carried her here following the loss at the Tailtean Plains, literally, as though Byleth weighed no more than a child, like the form of that selfsame Goddess who was Rhea’s mother. And their embrace was nothing short of filial—Byleth was _saved_ , so much as she was defeated; _rescued_ , so much as she was taken prisoner, and as she rocked in the arms of the archbishop she could at least appreciate the ironic justice that had brought about their savage family reunion. Inasmuch as justice could be found, before Rhea dumped her onto her broken leg and shackled her up in chains.

At Byleth’s best estimate, that was three full days ago. In all that time, she had not yet given up.

Neither had Rhea.

“Thief,” Rhea hissed at her. “Wicked usurper. There can be _no_ salvation for you. In a thousand years, none have spit upon the Goddess’s favor as you have—none but you have been so _contemptible_.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, her heel came to rest on Byleth’s shattered leg, and Byleth winced at just the contact. Back on the fields, her knee had bent horribly under the weight of a demonic beast, and it had since swollen to painful proportions, as a taut, reddening lump nearly the size of a fist. As Rhea began stepping down, blazing pain flared up, stabbing in all directions—and Byleth _howled_ , scraping at the stone floor with raw fingers. She could swear she felt bone fragments shifting and _moving_ underneath Rhea’s weight.

“You took my mother,” Rhea spat. “You, you failed vessel. I should have never allowed you to become enamored by that vile, traitorous whelp.” With a vindictive snarl, her sandal eased off of Byleth’s knee and smashed into her naked rib cage. Byleth forced a choked sob, curling up on the ground, tears already streaming down her face. She couldn’t give in. She _couldn’t_. Rhea withdrew her foot again, and Byleth immediately flinched away, but not quick enough to avoid another blunt explosion of pain.

The sainted archbishop, reduced to the tactics of a schoolyard bully. It didn’t seem so amusing to Byleth as she gasped for air, desperately crawling away, fearfully, _pointlessly_ , with her left hand cradling herself. That kick felt like it had dislodged at least a rib. Sobbing, Byleth made it to the corner of her cell, only for Rhea to snatch her wrist away from her side and press it high up against the wall, drawing Byleth to grovel at her feet.

“These hands have wrought unforgiveable sins,” Rhea murmured to herself. “A mercenary’s hands are her greatest weapons...”

Byleth’s eyes widened in horror.

“...You will have no more need of them,” Rhea said coldly, and a metal file was already bearing down. With a desperate wheeze, Byleth tried twisting away, hopelessly trying to squirm free. This side of Rhea was even worse, she had learned; when Rhea’s hardened rage had left her, and she slipped back into the dangerously calm voice of the archbishop, _that_ was when things started to hurt. The sharp point of the file almost tickled as it ghosted over Byleth’s left palm. She desperately flexed her hand, unable to do anything else but rapidly breathe in and out as Rhea crushed her wrist in place with a strength that seemed practically inhuman.

With a sickening _burst_ , Rhea drove the file straight into Byleth’s palm.

The room was drowned in the sound of screaming as the metal was forced all the way through, stretching the skin over the back of Byleth’s hand—she couldn’t tear her eyes away, transfixed, horrified, as the metal rod warped her skin from inside before bursting through like an oversized sewing needle. Rivulets of blood trailed down the length of her arm and congealed at her shoulder, dripping into Byleth’s eyes, dirtying her hair. What did it matter? She would never have a chance to wash it again.

“Your hands,” Rhea said, unmoved. “Your heart, and your very lifeblood itself. Gifts from the Goddess. As you have cast away these gifts, you, too, will be cast away to burn in the fires for eternity.”

She dropped Byleth’s impaled hand, and Byleth cried out as it smacked to the floor. The metal rod rammed through her flesh—it hurt _so_ _impossibly_ _bad_ , in ways that she never could have imagined, sending shocks of pain shooting up from _inside_ the nerves of her arm. Her knee was still throbbing, and her rib was bruising already, swelling into her lungs, making it even harder to breathe. Byleth could scarcely even cry any more, and simply lay there, sniffing through wide-eyed terror as Rhea stooped down and picked up her other hand.

She couldn’t give in, she just _couldn’t_ —she hadn’t seen Hubert die, and they both knew how valuable she was to the cause, so surely, Hubert would be coming to rescue her soon. She told herself that she _couldn’t give up_ , because that would mean dying here, in this cell no larger or more sanitary than a cesspit, at the hands of a madwoman who would go to any lengths possible to worsen her suffering.

Another metal spike speared through her right hand, and Byleth’s throat ran hoarse as she screamed, bracing herself atop bleeding fingertips. Every movement, every motion—she couldn’t put weight on her free hand without paralyzing her arm in pain, and she couldn’t collapse to the ground for fear of crushing her ribs, and so she rolled, struggling, to a sitting position slumped against the wall, panting heavily under Rhea’s merciless eyes. The King of Faerghus had wasted no time in claiming his trophy—Edelgard’s head, severed without ceremony right on the battlefield. So why could Rhea not do the same? Why not just rip Byleth’s heart from her chest and simply be done with it?

As if reading her mind, Rhea waved her hands, and the tantalizing glow of healing magic washed over Byleth for the first time in days—and then _stopped_ , just enough to leave her thirsting for more; only the briefest hint of relief to sate her knee and her ribs. They resumed aching immediately when the white magic cut off. Byleth instinctively raised a desperate hand to plead with her tormentor, but cried out in sudden pain as she realized exactly what Rhea had done.

The metal files driven into her palms had _healed_. They were a part of her body now, bloodstained flesh sealed up around them, fusing them in place like the Crest stone which had become her heart all those years ago. Moving either arm was _excruciating_. Forming a fist was—Byleth gritted her teeth as stabbing pain shot up through her arms, and she settled into a crippled, immobile lying position, shuddering with every breath. Pulling out the metal shards would be out of the question. Beating them against a wall, pounding them out that way, would be impossible as well. Maybe she could try yanking them out with her teeth overnight.

“I shall take your eyes tomorrow,” Rhea promised, and Byleth couldn’t help but let out a sob.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Carved Mark/Blood from Mouth/ **Stabbed**  
>  Leonie understands what it really means to live the life of a mercenary.  
> (Crimson Flower)

“You ever stab anyone?” Leonie asked breathlessly.

Jeralt drew in a long mouthful of tawdry ale before answering. “More times than I can count.”

“You ever _get_ stabbed?”

Jeralt fixed her with a glare over the rim of his tankard, and Leonie suddenly got the feeling that maybe she had overstepped, and that this evening, her mentor was only interested in nursing his drink like it would cleanse his soul, instead of fielding stupid questions from his overeager preteen apprentice. But he blinked to the side, wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave Leonie a rare _serious_ look.

“Yeah,” Jeralt said pointedly. “More times than I can count.”

***

“What got you into the merc business?” Judith asked.

“Money,” she answered automatically. “Glory too, I guess—glory, fame, all that stuff. But mostly money.”

Judith nodded. “Well, well. Glory, fame, and money. I can’t promise you two of those three things, but you’ll have a post here for as long as you want it. You know, Claude actually mentioned the two of you by name, so I’m glad I could snatch you up before that limpdick doormat Gloucester. Garreg Mach alumni are in pretty high demand these days.”

Leonie and Ignatz exchanged a glance.

“Well, here’s the thing...” Ignatz began.

“We never actually graduated!” Leonie blurted out loud. Judith raised an eyebrow.

“The Imperial Army attacked the monastery right before we were supposed to graduate,” Ignatz explained. “So, we’re not actually alumni. We did the full year, but only the graduation ceremony at the end got cut off.”

“I’ve been lying to people that I’m a Garreg Mach graduate for five years,” Leonie confessed unprompted. Ignatz snorted, trying and failing to hold back a burst of laughter, and Leonie figured she was already making an ass of herself in front of the Hero of Daphnel, so screw it, might as well go all the way. “Wow, it’s so great to get that off my shoulders. Good to know where we all stand, right?”

An easy smirk played across Judith’s face. It suited her. “Leonie, so long as you can hold down the fort, it’s fine by me. I’m expecting good things from you kids, okay? Don’t let me down.”

***

“Leonie,” Ignatz ventured, “can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Why didn’t you just become a knight?” he asked, and, oh Goddess, not this question again. Ignatz even sounded so sincere. “I mean—well, sorry, people tend to look down on sellswords, but everybody respects knights. And you’re certainly skilled enough for it. Sorry. I’m just wondering.”

“It’s about mobility,” she replied, just enough syllables to create the illusion that she put any thought into her answer.

“Oh, I understand,” Ignatz blatantly lied. “So that’s why you went to Faerghus?”

“Yep, because that’s where the war is,” Leonie said, stopping herself short of sarcasm. “I was only ever a contractor. As soon as I got to Charon, I signed up with some boys from Gautier, and that kept me fed for like, two years. Hey, did you know, that according to the Gautier Engineering Corps, the Gautier Engineering Corps are the best in the world at securing borders? Yeah. I did a bunch of heavy lifting for them, by which I mean, digging pitfall traps in the woods and stuff like that.”

Ignatz stared at her in fascination, wide eyes perfectly centered in his lenses. “That sounds incredible! What was it like in the Kingdom?”

“It was...” Leonie paused to think for a second. How best to kill his interest? “Okay, first, I want you to imagine bashing your head into a brick wall, over and over again.”

“Um...okay?”

Suddenly, she whirled on him. “Are you imagining it?” she demanded.

“Er, um...yes. It hurts really, really bad. Um, what’s the next step?”

“There is no next step!” she jeered. “That’s just what it was like! We’ve been at war for five years now and these borders haven’t moved a fucking inch. When is the Empire just gonna give up, huh?”

Awkwardly, Ignatz pointed out, “I think it’s _because_ of people like you that the borders haven’t moved.”

“Well, yeah,” Leonie huffed. “Hell. Get me a medal, then.”

***

“Out of all the propaganda so far, this just might be the strangest,” Ignatz commented.

He passed the leaflet into Leonie’s waiting hand. The Black Eagle Strike Force was apparently coming to spearhead an assault on the Alliance, again, only _this_ time it would be different, because this time they had an undefeatable secret weapon on their side—a high school teacher. Immediate surrender was advised.

“Even if she wasn’t dead, it’s such a strange reference to draw on,” Ignatz continued. “It sends a very specific message to three very specific people: the Head of House Riegan, the King of Faerghus, and the Archbishop. But that’s it. The vast majority of people will have no idea why it’s significant. In other words, it’s ineffective as propaganda. Why did they even let this be published?”

“Because they’re the only three people that matter,” Leonie said bitterly. “It doesn’t matter if Edelgard is trying to kill all the nobles, she’s still a noble herself, born and raised—and that’s just how nobles _think_. Us little people don’t even figure into their world.”

Ignatz frowned. “I don’t think it’s that simple. Remember Garreg Mach? Everyone was treated the same there, regardless of status. In fact, it might have been the only place in Fódlan where that was the case. And that’s the system Edelgard wants...so maybe that’s what the reference to the professor means. What do you think?”

I don’t know, Ignatz,” she snapped. “I stopped giving a shit about politics four years ago. I just stab who they tell me to stab.” There was an angry, tangible pause. “Honestly? Garreg Mach just pisses me off. I blew my life savings on an education, on a goddamn _piece of paper_ , and I’m using it to dig holes in the ground. So what do I know?”

“...Oh, Leonie...” Ignatz muttered hopelessly, “...that’s not true. You didn’t even get the piece of paper.”

***

“You really wanna know what it was like?” Leonie blustered. “It was boring. It was _so boring_. We checked the traps in the morning—that took about two hours—and then we just played cards for sixteen hours straight. It’s exactly like what we’re doing now. Fuck. At least the booze was cheap.”

“Well...this isn’t boring,” Ignatz insisted. “We’re keeping watch. If nothing happens, I consider that good news.”

“See if you’re still saying that a year from now,” she challenged him. “Ignatz, when you paint a picture of this—because I _know_ you’re gonna paint a picture of this, after all this is over—don’t paint a big dramatic battle scene, like everyone else is going to do. Paint two idiots standing around doing nothing. That’s what war is really like. No one tells you about the waiting. War is ninety-nine percent waiting, and only one percent actual fighting. Maybe less.”

“But in art, that percentage is reversed,” he mused. “Actually, you’re onto something, Leonie. The mundanities of war are incredibly underrepresented. I’ll admit, I kind of thought there would be more...action.”

Leonie cracked a grin. “So paint it. Draw from your experience. Paint it, and hey—in another five years, when you’re rich and famous, remember me. Come and visit me, even! I’m still going to be sitting right here...right here on this bridge.”

***

Garreg Mach alumni were in pretty high demand these days, or so she had heard.

The Black Eagle Strike Force swarmed over the Great Bridge of Myrddin, plunging the area into utter chaos. Leonie kicked her steed to a gallop—all that waiting, and she was _late_ to the fight. Incredible. The Sword of the Creator jabbed into her stomach before she could even react. Stunned, she fell from her horse, skidding against the rough cobbles before collapsing in disbelief.

Getting stabbed didn’t feel like what she had expected. It just felt like getting punched hard, and as Leonie lay shuddering on the ground, she thought that at least Captain Jeralt had endured only this—before the pain came suddenly in waves, pulsing all throughout her body like a feverish chill. Her silver lance had cost an entire paypacket, and now it was going to be looted before it could even put any imperials into the ground. Fuck. Her blood— _her blood_ —flowed beneath her, soaking the entire front of her jacket. Doing laundry was going to be a hassle.

What a way to die.

There would be no dramatic end to her saga, no last stand worthy of painting, no warrior’s send-off on a burning pyre. She lay still, cut down by the Ashen Demon, wondering how it had come to this. A corpse. A _statistic_. No fame, no glory, not even money—just another casualty of war.

Maybe that knife in the back was suitable after all.

Leonie closed her eyes and let them come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not every chapter will be a CF bad end, I swear. The next one will, but I think that'll be the last.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Surrender/ **Empty Shell** / **Forced to Watch**  
>  As Dimitri loses himself, Marianne can do nothing but watch.  
> (Crimson Flower)

The wandering was getting worse.

Recently, Dimitri had taken to stalking the halls of his empty castle. If left unchecked, then he could spend hours moving from room to room, just staring aimlessly; into unlit fireplaces, or at one of the many portraits of his ancestors lining the walls, or simply into dark, empty corners down the hall. Eventually, Marianne or Dedue would find him and ask him, always in the same polite tone of voice, that he bring himself back down. And he would always comply. Sometimes, he would even thank them. He would snap out of his seeming trance until the next night, when the wandering would resume, and sometimes the rambling—and so the cycle would persist and begin anew.

Was not sleeping a symptom, or was it the cause?

Marianne knew nothing of ghosts. She had always thought of the divide between living and dead as stark, uncrossable. While she belonged to one side, she had longed to join the other, but never did she dare to consider that she could be both. For so long as she _was_ alive, she _had to_ go through the motions, the daily, tedious routine of life, whether she liked it or not. To _act_ dead while still being alive felt...irresponsible.

Imperial propaganda called Dimitri the King of Delusion. With every new manifesto they sent out, Marianne couldn’t help but wonder—did they know how close they were to the truth?

Officially, she had been sent to the capital on church business, to help requisition the castle stores for vulneraries, cots, bandages, and anything else that their healers on the southern front could use. That first day in Fhirdiad was _enchanting_. The newly-coronated king welcomed her delegation with a grand speech and a pleasant smile, and invited them to take whatever was needed, and for once, all of their gossiping was optimistic. The bishops passed each other tales of the king’s generosity, his stoicism, his strength and bravery, tittering quietly behind hands and whispers...except for Marianne. She couldn’t stop thinking about something that she read in a book, a long, long time ago. Giving away possessions so freely could be a warning sign.

So on a whim, she had decided to stay, unable to ignore the terrible feeling of dread hissing in her ears. Maybe, she thought, it would be prudent for Dimitri to have a healer nearby him at all times.

Goddess, it was terrible to be right.

“Dimitri,” she had inquired one day, early on, “what happened to the rest of your staff?”

His face nearly fell, perhaps in surprise that she would ask such a thing, before recovering just as quickly. “Why, they’ve been moved out to Arianrhod,” he said with a smile. “Where else? The cooks, the launderers, even the gardeners and hairdressers. The troops have a much greater need of them than the royal estate.”

Marianne nodded in acquiescence. So it was just him and Dedue all alone in these towering halls, plus her as well now, for so long as neither of them had the heart to kick her out. And she didn’t think they would. Friendly faces from their school days were a welcome sight, what with their former classmates all deployed to make names for themselves on the front lines. Only Dimitri had been left behind to fulfill the duties of his office—he’d stand before the people of Fhirdiad, reassuring them with a smile, encouraging them to keep the home fires burning, then as soon as he turned from the balcony his face would immediately drop back to that sullen, haunted, empty stare.

Back at Garreg Mach, she and Dimitri had hardly been friends. They’d barely been acquaintances. But more than once, while passing each other in the stables or the cathedral, they’d spare each other the briefest look of concern—like travelers in a foreign country crossing paths with someone from their homeland, someone with whom they had never met, but could still recognize at a glance. They had been too afraid to act, at the time. How naive they were. There were much worse things to be afraid of.

Perhaps the crippling blow came with the news that Arianrhod fell. Marianne held the paper bulletin in a trembling hand, rereading the publicized account of the battle, turning over familiar names on her tongue. General Ingrid Brandl Galatea. General Felix Hugo Fraldarius. Outmaneuvered, overwhelmed, defeated. Dead. On that day, Dimitri acted no different. As he mutely followed her to the banquet hall, Marianne tried to avoid his eyes—impossible, with the stricken way they darted around—and wondered how many new ghosts had joined him in the night.

For longer than Marianne could even remember, before she even had the proper words to express it, she had known. She could remember—just praying to the Goddess to be dead.

So when had it started for Dimitri?

And how did he hide it so well, for so long?

The steady tapping of Dedue chopping carrots filled the kitchen. Since the castle’s food stores had long been donated to local churches and orphanages, the three of them tended to subsist on scalded tea and whatever root vegetables Dedue could eke from the dirt outside. Marianne stared absently at the steam rising from the kettle, thinking back on her prayers from last night. Perhaps her desperation had not been sufficient enough. Bread cast upon the sea would return tenfold. All she needed to do was keep the faith.

“The Goddess has smited Arianrhod,” Dimitri suddenly announced.

Marianne dropped her spoon with a start. It fell to the floor with a loud, awkward clatter, causing Dimitri to stare at her. She hadn’t heard him come in, but there he was in the doorway, wearing a faraway look in his eyes—for how long had he been standing there?

“...What?” she managed.

“It’s gone,” he said, and he was practically smiling now, completely unperturbed. “What Edelgard has stolen of our holy land, the Goddess has scraped away from creation. An Ailell for the west. Her righteous light has consumed the fortress, tearing it asunder, and the eternal flames spring from the cracks in the earth once more.”

“Your Highness,” Dedue said carefully, wiping his hands off on a towel. “Wait before you act on this. For now, you must eat before the food becomes cold.”

“Hmm?” Dimitri blinked. “O-oh, yes, of course. We must eat first. Thank you, Dedue. Thank you, Marianne. Today gives us no small cause for celebration. Heaven has finally struck back. The chance for revenge will soon be granted.”

And he bowed, then left, taking a bowlful of vegetable broth with him, which was not remotely close to becoming cold. Dedue, steadfast as always, passed Marianne a strange look over his shoulder as he followed behind his liege.

Marianne ducked her head and began praying on the spot.

Because in what world was Dedue looking to _her_ for _help_?

Not for the first time, she lay awake in bed that night, wondering what hell might exist where her feeble healing magic could outweigh the effects of her curse. Only once before—at Garreg Mach, facing the ire of an active war zone—had the situation been so terrible that she never hesitated to help. She could still remember the screeches of demonic beasts echoing around her, accompanying her memories of reaching into a ribcage, pinching severed arteries closed, and holding a knight together until an actual healer could arrive to take things from her clumsy, incapable hands. She didn’t want to think about what would have happened if a medic never showed up.

She was about to find out.

The most worrying part about his planning was that Dimitri almost seemed _better_ during it. At any waking moment, he could be found muttering histories and strategies to himself, each one more brilliant than the last, going over the details with a razor-sharp focus. His dreams of revenge had finally found an outlet—so who was she to spoil his enjoyment? This was the most animated she had seen him in five years. Dimitri’s addled mind would chase its goal to the ends of the world, shrugging off death blows like nothing, drinking saltwater to quench his insatiable thirst for revenge. The boy she knew existed no more.

Or so she thought.

“You must leave,” he said to her. His voice was completely devoid of malice. “Lady Rhea is coming to the capital. I fear you may be swept up in the ensuing march.”

It didn’t register, at first, that there could still be things that Dimitri feared. “I c-can fight,” she insisted. “I can heal.”

“I would rather you do neither,” he said softly, and Marianne’s eyes widened—it was _him_ , the tormented prince, instead of the empty king who wore his body. He met her eyes in understanding, his pain showing in all the worst places. “Marianne, you must flee. Enough people have already lain down their lives for me. I couldn’t...I wouldn’t be able to bear it, if you joined the ranks of the dead.” He took her hand in his, desperate and lucid and whole. “Flee, Marianne. You _must_ live on. Go, now. Go, and live your precious life.”

Not a monster. Not a boar. Just a sad, sad man, left behind by those he loved. And now, it would need to happen again, one final time, if she were to uphold the dying wishes of an impossible man.

Marianne left Fhirdiad in the dead of night, trailing tears and prayers behind her.

Hmm.

Spared again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my incredibly specific and self-indulgent headcanon where in CF route, unrecruited Marianne runs away from home to help the church during the war, and she ends up in Fhirdiad with Dimitri and that's why he's not as delusional/feral during CF. Is it tragic??? yes ofc


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: **Painful Transformation** /Clawing at Throat/ **Out of Air**  
>  Dedue’s armor has saved his life countless times. But when he falls into the Airmid River, he might as well be wearing his tombstone.  
> (Azure Moon)

Even on the best of his days, Dedue would not consider himself a poetic man.

There was no poetry in the mother tongue—at least, nothing that the people of Fódlan would consider _poetry_. Prosodic words on a page could not possibly make poetry. True poems did not have words.

Surely, there was a poem to found in his current predicament, yet he could not find the words to express it, not in the mother tongue nor in the language of Fódlan. But even if he had all the time and languages in the world, Dedue doubted he could properly recount the steps that had led him here, culminating with his plunge into the water.

Although, he could try.

Perhaps the best thing to do, then, was to start at the beginning—but therein already lay a problem. Which beginning was _the_ beginning? Perhaps the beginning of the battle, to which he had regretfully arrived late. Or maybe the beginning of Cornelia’s rule. Or he could go back even further—back to the tragedy, or maybe back to his own birth, or maybe even before that, back to a time of myths, when his people still spoke of forests made of fur carpeting the earth, and spiderwebs woven from lightning blanketing the sky. That would have been the time when his forefathers were first torn from their families to have the mother tongue washed out of their mouths with beatings and soap.

In order, then.

The Great Bridge of Myrddin was very, very far. Traveling all the way there would demand an order of stealth that would hide even his skin color—no easy task, while sealed in a full suit of armor. For too many nights, he had walked in utter darkness across the enemy territory of three separate enemies, eating boiled tree roots and drinking venom if he had too, and he mercifully discovered he was getting close when shot at by the violet-clad archers of House Gloucester.

His armor had protected him. It was a veritable masterpiece, a blending of Duscur smithing techniques and Faerghus refinement, and it had protected him from all manner of arrows, daggers, axe blows and magic. Against the military-class demonic beasts of the Imperial army, it was worse than useless. One of them had swept a monstrous paw across the bridge, smashing a section of the paved wall, sweeping Dedue over the edge with it, and he instinctively knew—he was gone.

And so soon after seeing Dimitri again. That panicked, horrified look on his liege’s face as he watched Dedue fall over the edge...

That was _not_ something Dedue wanted to take with him to the grave.

Putting on the full suit could sometimes take half an hour. Removing it usually took a bit shorter. If Dedue was to survive, he would need to take it all off in under two minutes.

The pauldrons first, then.

His very purpose in life was to be His Highness’s shield. And he had been... _insufficient_ , for lack of a better word. The last time Dedue had seen Dimitri was five years ago, as he pushed him through a doorway, locking it so Dimitri couldn’t fight his way back in to die at his side. Cornelia’s traitors were coming, and Dedue needed to buy all the time he could get.

Somehow, he was spared. Perhaps Cornelia knew she had already won, and thought not to mar her first day as regent with an execution—or perhaps they simply planned to use him as bait. In either case, he was sent to the labor camps instead, to break his spirit before they broke his body.

It was less than two months before the rebels came to set him free.

Politics could be a funny thing. The rebellion had been festering in the mountains for years, but it was the outbreak of war that truly allowed them to flourish. The enemy of an enemy was a friend, and Edelgard’s sweetened promises of a fair society were too tempting for his countrymen to ignore, galvanizing them into action. They broke down the gates and bludgeoned the guards and executed the warden, and welcomed Dedue as a brother-in-arms, completely unaware that his loyalty lay only with their most hated enemy.

As soon as he hit the water, the shock of cold blew the air from his lungs, and he cursed himself—that was a good twenty seconds lost, if not more. The armor practically doubled his weight. Dedue sank like a stone, the sun already darkening above him, swallowed up by the depths and rapidly slipping out of his reach.

According to the oldest, wisest woman in his town, the people of Duscur were born of union between the earth and heaven. They could not burrow like bugs and snakes, nor hide in caves like bears and foxes, and so they stood proudly on two legs instead of four, unashamed of what made them different, bringing them closer to their father in the sky.

According to a prominent Kingdom scholar, the people of Duscur had actually migrated from the north as little as nine generations ago, and were more closely related to the populations of Albinea and Sreng than the people of Fódlan. Thus, it was right and justified to burn their settlements and drive them from their homes, taking back what had never been theirs.

According to the leader of the guerilla band that had rescued him, the people of Duscur had inhabited their lands since time immemorial. It was the people of Fódlan who were the invaders, and they had been plotting for centuries to wipe them out. Their language, their culture—deliberately, systematically destroyed by schools and churches. Their history—all art of Duscur had _purpose_ , unlike the meaningless trinkets of Fódlan. An earring had its birthplace engraved upon it. The patterns woven into clothing were a record of one’s lineage. A dance could tell a story—Dedue thought back on the stiff, regimented ballroom dancing of Fódlan, and his mind raced with the realization of how many stories had been lost forever.

Dedue cared little for the past. And yet, he still found himself sneaking through a forest with his brothers, unlit torch in hand, through the stolen lands that nobles had scraped and fought and connived for. And he could admit, while watching Viscount Kleiman’s home burn, that a deep and hateful sense of satisfaction was burning within him too.

The burning of the manor was meant as a poem, they had explained. And it would have been a good one too, if only the viscount was still inside. True poems did not have words.

His gauntlets and vambraces were stripped and discarded, spiraling away into the darkness. Quickly, he began unbuckling his greaves, calmly aware that he was running out of breath. Only once his arms and legs were free could he try propelling himself upward again.

The King of Lions, Loog, had fought and died over four hundred years ago. But largely unbeknownst to history was Duscur’s contribution to his war. The northern rebels were allowed to hide themselves in those same frigid mountains that hid the militia today, and so the people of Duscur had been rewarded. Treaties were drawn, schools were built, and then those same schools were later used to rip children away from their families, to return them back to their villages mute, dumb, footless, neutered. The treaties had been _abrogated_ —Dedue furrowed his brow, and the militia leader had laughed. Leave it to the language of Fódlan to have so many obscure words for deceit and betrayal.

Faerghus was abhorrent. There was exactly one path that would lead to reconciliation; to a Kingdom where the people of Duscur could walk as respected equals. It was the path that had led Dedue across the continent, chasing rumors of a one-eyed, blue-and-blond monster. And to see the look on His Highness’s face after five years—it reminded him of what he was fighting for. To aid the last hope of his people. To help Dimitri realize his goals; to serve as his sword and shield and his eyes and ears; to fight, to kill, and to die so he could make those dreams a reality.

If only he hadn’t been knocked off the bridge.

Now _that_ would have been a poem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on that time I benched Dedue, so when he autodeployed on chapter 16 he was underleveled and got killed instantly. Whoops.
> 
> This chapter is also based on how the people of Duscur suffered a cultural genocide and how the game just...completely glosses over it. Like what the fuck. Does genocide count for "painful transformation"? I think it does.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Panic Attack/Tears of Fear/ **Rage Against the Reflection**  
>  Desperate for another Crest-bearing child, Count Galatea decides to knock up Ingrid himself.  
> (Any Route but Crimson Flower)

The bump was unmistakable, now.

She cradled her hands over her belly as she stared at herself in the mirror, unable to suppress the squeeze caught building in her throat, refusing to tear her gaze away even as her tongue started trembling and her throat ran dry. The bump, the _baby bump_ , it was simply _there_. It bulged offensively, unwilling to be hidden beneath her thickest sweaters, leaving her afraid to button up her largest coats. Ingrid pressed her hands over herself, pressing both hands over her womb as forcefully as she dared, daring herself to stop just short before she actually used any force at all.

The child growing inside her was, potentially, the key to her house’s prosperity. Its life was, _potentially_ , worth more than the rest of her entire family’s combined. If it bore a major Crest—Ingrid allowed herself to imagine—then these mere nine months of discomfort would be well worth it to rebuild her house, and to make sure no future generations of Galatea ever wanted for food in the way that she had all throughout her youth.

Either that, or her child would turn out to be another empty promise, just like her brothers. And all her suffering would have been for naught.

It was a perfect storm of fanciful ideas, wasn’t it? An arranged marriage suddenly seemed so unfeasible against the backdrop of a continent-wide war, and yet, no matter how hard Ingrid tried, her father could not be convinced to send his only daughter off to battle. For Ingrid was a Crest bearer before she was a knight or an heir, and it was her solemn duty to ensure that their lineage survived, especially in these direst of times. Thus, she was to stay at home in Galatea territory, as far from the front lines as could possibly be, and simply...wait. She would wait, and remain in waiting, safe until that nuisance war had finally concluded itself, upon which point the search for an adequate suitor would resume. And in the intervening years, when she had nothing to do but wait...

Count Galatea had sired the only known bearer of the Crest of Daphnel. Out of all living men, only he had the highest chance of siring another.

Ingrid had known this. She had swallowed her protests, unflinching even as she removed her underclothes and dutifully joined her father in bed. His _marital_ bed, the bed that was her mother’s so much as it was his. A quick, loveless... _session_ , watched over by their family physician, and it was done. She numbly put her clothes back on and drank the herbal tonic the physician handed to her before her father finally allowed her to retire for the night.

Unbeknownst to either of them, she hadn’t even made it back to her chambers before throwing up. The fertility draught in her stomach had likely cost her father a fortune. It shouldn’t have gone entirely to waste.

His seed had taken anyway.

And that was a good thing, Ingrid told herself. That was the plan, and for any plan to succeed on its first attempt was a sign of much-needed luck. Because if she hadn’t conceived, then they would have just needed to try again. And again. For as many times as they had to, for the good of Galatea. Because in the mind of her father, there was simply no other way Ingrid could serve her people. Yes, it had to be a good thing, because the alternative was too severe to even think about.

So why did her reflection gaze back at her with such uncertainty? Why did her eyes look so sullen and haggard, and why did her lips tremble like she was on the verge of tears?

Certainly, she was well beyond the point where she could fight in anyone’s war, just as her father had intended. She had not picked up a weapon in nearly two months, and neglected her riding and flying practice for even longer than that. Her treasured collection of lances, once so meticulously organized and cared for, had all been donated to the troops. Lúin had gone back in the vault. The only hints that Ingrid was once an accomplished fighter in her own right were remnants, scattered over her desk—a curry comb, a half-empty jar of spear polish, and other small, meaningless, fragile items. Nothing that she could use to smash the mirror with. She turned her eyes to her bookshelf instead. Never in her life did she think she would ever tire of her childhood favorites, but even _The Sword of Kyphon_ seemed to frustrate her more than anything, tempting her with sparks of what could have been.

Their kingdom was _at war_ , for the Goddess’s sake—she should have been out there fighting alongside her comrades, protecting her king's domain, not cooped up in her chambers, staying out of the public eye so not to cause any scandals, desperately trying to fill the void with shallow tales and imagination.

The latest addition to her bookshelf was the most irritating of all; a wordy, outdated guidebook for expecting women, written by a man, whose wife had clearly had no input in the authorial process. It had been a gift from Ingrid’s mother, who had in turn received it from her own mother. Yes, the guidebook looked heavy enough. It would have to do.

Ingrid lumbered over to her bookshelf on sluggish legs, snatched up the book with uncoordinated fingers, and glared at herself in the mirror—she was supposed to have a “glow,” apparently, according to the book, but all she could see was her own lymphatic, pregnant self, with pale vomit from the morning still encrusted on the sides of her lips, exhausted to the point of illness, as welcoming as a madwoman. Back at Garreg Mach, she had been in the best shape of her life. At one point, she almost had _abs_. Likely, she would never reach that point again.

Her image shattered to pieces, and Ingrid felt herself burst into tears.

Now, now. That was just the influence of her hormones, the book had said. Fits of temporary hysteria were not uncommon, and Ingrid knew she had the willpower to overcome them, for the good of the men in her life. Just like the book had said.

She was fine with just leaving the book on the floor, actually. It _was_ rather heavy. And her pregnant belly was going to make it difficult to bend over, even though she would need to do so anyway to pick broken shards out of the carpet, lest they slice open her already-aching feet.

...But first, she needed to go throw up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have already pitched this story somewhere, so if it sounds familiar to you that's probably why


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: **Lifted by Neck** / **Dragging Along Ground** /Amputation  
> Ashe needs to steal to provide for his brother and sister. Sometimes, the risk doesn't pay off.  
> (Pre-canon)

In the stories, the chase scenes had always been his favorites. When the stakes had climbed higher than ever and the plucky hero found himself trapped, cornered with his back pressed against the wall, there would be a moment where everything seemed to be so tense, everything frozen in time—and then he’d break free, and then the villains would react with a delayed “after him!” and then the chase would begin. The hero would run all the way throughout town to give those villains the slip, doing things that Ashe could reenact with his younger siblings the next day; leaping fences and puddles, bounding across rooftops, always managing to stay one step ahead of his would-be captors; and then just when it seemed like his luck was about to run out, the clever hero would always pull some cunning trick from his sleeve and manage to escape—and Ashe would beg his mother to keep reading, wanting to experience just one more chapter of that heart-pounding, breathless excitement.

Unfortunately, real life was not like the stories.

Ashe tore down a narrow, soot-blackened alley on spindly legs, his breaths coming fast and frantic as he ran. A terrified yelp escaped his lips as he nearly smacked his head against a low-hanging awning, then sideswiped and skidded off the corner of somebody’s house—he hastily pushed himself off the wall, his pulse racing from sheer terror moreso than the sprinting, knowing that he couldn’t slow down for a second or else it would all be over.

He couldn’t keep running for much longer. He needed to use his wits, just like he was the hero in a story. He had to go somewhere they couldn’t follow. He needed—he needed to find some place—a crawlspace, a cranny, anything—anywhere his skinny, child-sized self could squeeze through but an adult couldn’t. A pile of wooden beams were left leaning against the wall of the alley, for construction, maybe, and Ashe didn’t even hesitate. He threw himself behind the stack, willing himself to shrink down and disappear, unable to calm his breathing as he cowered in fear. Tears had begun welling up in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, tightly, _so_ tightly, with sound of his heartbeat hammering in his ears, praying and praying that his pursuers would pass him by.

“I found him!” one of the guards shouted, and Goddess, _no_ , he was upon him, seizing Ashe by the wrist and dragging him from his hiding place. Wooden planks clattered to the ground underneath him. Ashe cried out in protest, scratching and crying before the guard threw him forward and slammed his weight against him, crushing Ashe against a nearby wall.

“What are you doing to that boy?” demanded a new voice. The lack of hatred in it was unfamiliar. Ashe twisted his neck around to see an older woman, portly and with her hair tied up in a bun, approaching them. Maybe she lived in one of the houses, come outside to hang up her laundry—Ashe locked eyes with the woman, pleading with her, putting up his most innocent, desperate look; trying to imitate the real look he saw in his brother’s eyes every night. _Please_.

The guard, still holding onto Ashe, shook him a little, and Ashe choked. The man’s finger and thumb were nearly touching together around Ashe’s neck; just one of his hands could be so wide, and Ashe’s body was just so underwhelmingly small. Panting, the guard explained, “This little whelp made off with the Lady Martuszka’s handbag.” Still trying to catch his breath, he shook Ashe by the neck again, like that would communicate something. “Snatched it right out of her carriage. Delayed our lady half a day, at least—damn little _thief_.”

“Thief?” the woman repeated loudly, her face contorting in disgust. Oh, that would do it. Any sympathy she had for Ashe was immediately gone, and Ashe, from his hold against the muddy wall, starting quivering in his panic. The shame burned even worse than the cramp stabbing under his lung. It wasn’t an entirely untrue summary. In truth, it had been a crime of opportunity: a neglected purse left behind, tempting him with the simple sort of grab-and-run that didn’t usually result in a pair of trained guardsmen chasing after him. He had long been haunted by the idea of getting caught, but now that it had finally happened, it was too late to realize that the _shame_ was truly the worst part.

“That’s right,” the guard spat. Behind them, his partner had finally caught up, and Ashe’s whole body plunged cold. No more escaping for him. “He’s a thief. Go back to your home. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, it _doesn’t_ ,” the older woman sneered. “I’m still of the mind that thieves get their hands cut off. Good riddance, I say.”

With that, she whirled on a foot and left. Ashe sniffed. His nose was running, dripping disgustingly all over his lips, but he couldn’t dare reach up and wipe it away, not with the hand still wrapped precariously around his neck. When his brother and sister begged for bread on the streets, it was typically the kindliest of washerwomen who would cave and spare them coin. How quickly those women would turn on them, when learning of Ashe’s less-than-chivalrous nighttime activities.

“It’s just a kid,” the second guard said doubtfully. “Look, he’s crying.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the first guard replied. “Boy. Where is it?”

Ashe tried to nod without sniffing, even as the guard’s grip on his throat tightened; with his hands free, he began smoothing over his pockets—and his eyes widened in sheer terror when he realized the lump under his clothes _wasn’t_ _there_.

Oh no.

“I,” he wheezed, “don’t have it.”

“Don’t lie!” ordered the second guard.

“It must have fallen out!” Ashe pleaded, visibly panicking already. “Please! I don’t have it! It must have fell!”

Incredulous, the second guard began patting him down, more massive hands drifting over Ashe’s empty pockets, turning up nothing. When the hands withdrew, Ashe began breathing a bit easier—only for the man still holding him to throw him neck-first at the ground.

“I’ve seen this trick before,” the first guard spat. “He left it somewhere in the alley, so he can come back and pick it up later. Him, or one of his street rat friends. It’s probably hidden underneath some trash.” With a scowl, he squatted down on his haunches, meeting Ashe face-to-face. His breath smelled terrible. “Where did you hide it, boy? Where?”

“I d-don’t know!” he stammered desperately. “It fell out! I can—I can look for it—”

That answer was met with a harsh boot to the stomach, and Ashe seized up, pain swelling in waves all throughout his body, too winded to make any cry besides a soft, ineffectual wheeze. His stomach had already been sore from the running, and even before that, he had been aching with hunger from giving his portion of breakfast to his sister, but _this_ —he had taken his fair share of abuse, but never had he been _kicked in the stomach_ before today. It hurt _so much_ that he didn’t realize where the two guards had gone until one of them twisted a hand into his too-long hair and began dragging him down the alleyway.

Ashe tried to scream, tears streaming openly down his face, and a pathetic, painful noise came out instead. Unmoved, the hand in his hair dragged him up on his knees, shoving him at the pile of timber, now upended all over the alleyway.

“Start looking, then,” the first guard sneered. “We’ll drag you all the way back to market if we have to. Hopefully, _that’ll_ jog your memory.”

Sobbing, Ashe frantically scrambled to his feet, clambering behind the lumber pile which had hidden him just a minute before. There was no doubt in his mind that the men would make good on their threat—he had heard tales of worse from the wastrels and riffraff who shared his living space, and so he spun prayers up above as he scoured the ground, searching desperately through pain and blurry tears for something probably worth more than what most people made in a year.

What would happen to him if he couldn’t find it?

To his side, the first guard starting tapping his foot.

“Wait!” Ashe screeched. “It’s here! It’s here!”

He pulled the handbag out and waved it in the air, wiping the mud off with a finger, his heart pounding with absolute relief. It must have fallen when he was crouching down. If it hadn’t been there—Ashe’s mind refused to complete that thought. The distance they had run was very, very long. The second guard grabbed it from him, opened it up and began rifling through it, making sure that all the jewelry and lockets and other expensive trinkets were still inside. Finally, the man announced, “It’s good.”

“Lucky,” the first guard snapped. “Maybe we _should_ have cut your hands off. That would have taught you a lesson, little thief.”

They walked away, leaving Ashe kneeling on the ground, tensely holding himself stiff, trying to find of way of breathing that didn’t hurt. Another bust. Another day without money to buy food—although, even the idea of eating made his stomach want to empty itself, and he clutched himself, doubling over in pain on the ground.

At least those men hadn’t had the time to leave him any worse.

Lucky. Sure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Hiding Injury/Bleeding Out/ **Mouth Stitched Shut**  
>  Even while imprisoned in a corrective labor camp, Caspar can’t help but run his mouth.  
> (Any Route but Azure Moon)

“It is for discipline,” the warden had said.

Caspar punched him in the face.

That was how he had ended up with two extra holes in his head, rather than the customary one. The piercings in each of his cheeks stung worse than anything, keeping him awake those first few awful nights, wincing and shivering. Break a person’s bones, they’ll heal. But break somebody’s _spirit_ —that was why the loops of wire had been added. A man could not focus on rebellion when his every thought was devoted to moving smoothly around a metal wire, to avoid having it slice through his sensitive flesh. Given enough time, and even if he got lucky with the infections, Caspar’s cheeks would probably never heal.

In this hard labor camp, located somewhere in the frigid north of Gautier, every prisoner had at least one. The metal loops functioned as both uniforms and meal tickets, and also hooks, for herding the prisoners around like cattle, and also keyrings, for when the guards were feeling particularly cruel. Already, Caspar had learned the hard way that trying to take them out was not a good idea.

“So if I’ve got two, does that mean I get two meals?” he asked hopefully.

The guard wordlessly grabbed his face, slid his fingers through each of the metal hoops, and _pulled_. Caspar cried out before he was shoved forcefully into his cell, landing hard on his hands and knees. Okay, so no one here had a sense of humor, either. Typical Faerghus. Well, at least they didn’t rough him up permanently. As the son of the famed Count Bergliez, he was given special treatment as a prisoner: a flimsy bedroll in a private cell...and that was it. They couldn’t break him _too_ too much when there was valuable ransom money to be had.

That didn’t spare him from the work, though.

The inevitable baton rattling on the bars of his cell startled him awake. He was used to getting up early in the mornings, but the schedule here was so merciless, it practically seemed like a joke. Caspar leapt to his feet, wiping the overnight crust of pus and blood from his cheeks, straightening his clothes before standing to attention. If he was too slow, there would be beatings. If the guards didn’t like his posture, there would be beatings. A lot of problems in this camp seemed to be solved with beatings, and that was one of the things that _actually_ made Caspar mad. Imperial prison camps couldn’t be this bad, could they? He had never heard of prisoners being forced to do hard labor, but everyone else seemed to just go with it—or maybe, everyone had just learned as fast as he did.

Their work essentially amounted to digging holes in the ground and filling them back in again, creating ramparts to defend against invasions from Sreng. As everyone walked to the worksite, in a procession of prisoners linked by a cord running through their metal loops, escorted by armed guards, Caspar couldn’t help but stare into the trench adjacent to the road—it stretched from farther south than he could see, over the horizon into the Itha Plains, maybe even reaching as far the sea. Occasionally, bodies could be seen in ditches, pecked to pieces by the birds. Needlessly cruel as it was, he still couldn’t help but marvel at the accomplishment. They must have been digging it for _years_ —Caspar had only been imprisoned for a month, and they barely added any distance to the trench in all that time. How many more bodies would pile up before it stretched across the entire border?

The day passed by in a cold, mind-numbing haze of work. The shovels they used were inefficient pieces of garbage, lightweight enough so that they couldn’t be used as weapons—not that the prisoners hadn’t tried, of course. If that happened, both the shovels and the offending prisoner would disappear the next day, and the rest of them would have to start excavating with their bare hands. Caspar wiped sweat off his forehead before it could freeze him in the chilling air. The work was already hard enough, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle—for now. When winter came, and the dirt hardened...

...Then it wouldn’t matter, because he would be long gone by then. Caspar fought the urge to grin to himself, lest he tear his cheeks again in glee.

Of _course_ he had an escape plan. His father would never stoop so low to pay a ransom—in fact, once Caspar got back to the Empire, he would probably yell at him for taking so long to escape. And this corpse, freshly fallen in the dirt, was part of the plan. The body was emaciated, and pale death might have been a mercy to his suffering—but that wasn’t the part that Caspar was interested in. With freezing fingers, he reached into the man’s mouth, untangled the metal wire, slid it out, and stashed it in his waistband for later.

Did these idiots think they could break his spirit? He was a warrior, born and raised, and he would _never_ stop fighting for so long as he could breathe. The same tools meant to injure and humiliate them would give him his means of escape. For the last week, he had been stealing away snippets of the metal wire, concealing them in his cell, stringing them together before he slept. Using a garrote was more of a Hubert technique, but a weapon was a weapon and he could always fall back on his fists, if it came to that. All he had to do was bide his time in his cell, keep crafting the cable, and wait for an opportune moment to overcome a guard—once he got his hands on a lance, the rest would easily fall into place.

Caspar kept his head down, digging at a steady pace, actively trying to conceal his good mood. He could no longer whistle while he worked due to the holes in his cheeks, but he probably still would have tried.

That good mood carried him all throughout the working day, lasted throughout mealtime, and then immediately crashed down as soon as he returned to his cell.

The warden and a couple of his lancemen were inside, holding up his bedroll and shaking it, searching for any trace of metal inside. Caspar stepped inside and froze.

“Hey, that’s my bed!” he protested before he could stop himself.

“Oh?” The warden held up a length of metal wire, dangling it in the same way the prisoners held up rats by the tail. “This is yours, as well?”

“No, it’s not!” he shouted. Not answering would practically be a confession. And besides, staying quiet had never been his strong suit. “I’ve never seen that before in my life! Stop trying to set me up!”

The warden tutted. “We are too soft on you, Bergliez. We still wait for a reply from your father.” He motioned, and the guards pointed their lances forward, dropping the bedroll to the floor. “How sad. I am starting to think he does not care about his no-Crest son.”

“Let me go!” Caspar screamed, but the guards were already upon him.

***

When he came to, he was being thrown back into his cell, blood oozing down his chin, dripping down his neck. His bedroll had been removed, and he curled up on the rough ground, crying, wishing his mouth would stop hurting.

Cautiously, he held his silent tears just long enough to raise a hand to his mouth, feeling up the wires crisscrossing through his lips. It was strung _tight_ , and he could probably ease free _eventually_ , but the days it was going to take to free himself were going to be the most painful days of his life.

What would Linhardt do? Caspar stared up at the wall, trying to imagine what his best friend would do in this situation. First, he would probably panic or faint or something, and then the guards would start beating him again as soon as he woke up. Not helpful. Thanks a lot, Linhardt. Caspar held back the nauseated feeling in his stomach just like his tears, trying desperately not to throw up. If he did, it was possible he would drown in it.

Maybe later, he could find Linhardt, and he would fix him again, just like he always did.

Maybe if he _ever_ got out.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and there you have it!  
> I hope this hurt to read as much as it hurt to write. Writing whump is hard. Reading whump can be harder. If you made it through all seven days, give yourself a pat on the back. I've had some of these ideas kicking around in my head for a while (the Dimimari one especially) so I'm glad Whump Week gave me an excuse to get them all out.


End file.
